There were grunts, curses. Even a snarl or two, and a threat I did not bother to address.
Ishmael’s looming figure did not so much as twitch. “Whose?”
“The Menagerie’s.”
I had not expected the noise to suddenly go quiet again. Ishmael turned, slowly, as if he had all the time in the known world to level a look of flat regard to his crew. “Is this true?”
Because he had been the man to begin the sortie, the rogue with the dark hair and spitting habit abruptly found himself in a widened gap of his mates. He thrust out his jaw, folded his arms. “Bartie’s a good bloke.”
“If he has crossed the Menagerie, you know the law.” There was no room for wheedling against that tone. The rogue went pale. “You angling to take his place, Godger?”
If possible, the one called Godger went even whiter, until his skin was nearly the same shade as the fog through my lens. I adjusted the protectives. “No,” the man admitted, but not willingly. It seemed pulled from him; from his pride, more like.
Menagerie justice was not the kind of promise one easily accepted.
“Then you know the outcome.” Ishmael turned to me, his jaw tight. “Talk with me.”
I nodded, only just resisted the urge to make a rude gesture to the men who quickly faded back to whatever holes they might have come from—the laps of willing women, the interiors of pubs, even patrols taken to mind their own territory. More than one would need a slab of cold to take the sting away.
The last to go was the man whose decision had not gone the way he’d planned. Godger glared at me as I turned away.
I made no friends, but then, I’d only come for one.
“Coventry will be delivered, but I can’t do it yet,” said Ishmael as he led the way across the lane and into a narrow doorway. He had to turn sideways to get in. Once past the doorjamb, the space beyond opened into a large, smoky pub. There were men and women alike inside, each as entertained by their own interests as they were curious of my arrival. There was a dip in the conversations, a lull in the rhythm of a good pub well-tended, and then it smoothed.
Ishmael only had to look at a small table occupied by two lanky men, one no older than eighteen, perhaps. They quickly found other places to be.
I was impressed. I knew Ishmael had some ranking among the Bakers, but I did not realize how much. He’d come up in the world.
The chair he sat in creaked alarmingly. I followed suit. Mine did not so much and shift beneath my wait.
“Why not?” I asked once we were seated.
“Baker business, girl. I need him for a time.”
“And after?”
Ishmael did not look bothered. “After, I’ll deliver him myself.”
“Does this have anything to do with the Ferrymen?” I asked him, and sighed when he only looked at me with the expression of one who was not intent on repeating himself. “Fine, fine,” I allowed, and withdrew a small swatch of black from my coat pocket. “Put this with him when he’s delivered.” Ishmael took it, pocketed with a simple nod. He’d do it. It was my calling color, as it were. Black from Miss Black. Hawke would know, when it came time to field the bounty.
It may not matter to the Veil, but it did to me.
“Why are you here?” he asked me, point-blank and with no preamble. A fine grasp of the Queen’s English he might have, but Ishmael was not one to waste words. “You’ve never attempted a collection on a Baker.”
Rightfully so. I fingered my lip gently. “I need Baker help.”
His near-black eyes were steady. “Funny way of showing it.”
“You think they’ll be sore a female caused some damage?” I asked, raising my eyebrows over the goggles still banded about my face.
“Among other things.” He leaned an elbow on the rickety, scarred table. “Help how?”
“I’m hunting the Ripper.”
Now, I watched his eyes widen, the black depths flashing more than a little concern. Heartwarming enough, but not at all the regard I needed from an ally. “Why?” he asked me, the yellowed whites of his eyes vanishing again as they narrowed just as quickly.
To the point. I did enjoy Ishmael’s company so. “He’ll lead me to the sweet tooth.”
He did not ask me why again, allowing the previous word to linger.
“I’ve accepted commissions on both.” Not entirely the truth, but I could not admit so much. There was more I did not say than that which I did—that the sweet tooth had murdered my husband, that he was likely a collector, that Zylphia and the sweets demanded his turning over for Menagerie justice, or that the Veil had done the same—for very different reasons.
I was desperate to rob the fiend of his arrogance, his pride, but I could not stop there.
These things would reveal too much, and allow for too many questions.
I was not prepared to answer any, so I gave him the barest of facts.
“The tooth carved up a number of sweets, and hurt one just recent. He’s wanted for Menagerie justice.” Bordering Limehouse meant that Bakers understood the politics. It was one reason they’d been allowed to flourish east of the Veil’s district.
This seemed more than enough information. Ishmael leaned back, his thick lips loosely working as he mulled the knowledge. A spurt of laughter from a golden-haired twist set a riotous chortle among the men surrounding her, and I glanced once to find her in a man’s lap, his hand ‘twixt her thighs.
I was grateful for the mask of the large goggles, for I wasn’t positive that my cheeks did not burn hotly at the wanton, drunken display. I turned back to my friend as nonchalantly as I dared.
Finally, he asked, “What do you want of the Bakers?”
“Eyes and ears,” I said readily. “Nothing more. You wander the whole of London low, still, yes?”
A short nod, but no explanation. While the gangs remained true to their territory, there were many forays into other districts and boroughs. Not always for related activities, but the rules drawn between gangs were not widely known and I dared not pry. Baker business was not mine.
“The Ripper operates most in Whitechapel,” I told him. “I need more eyes than I possess.”
“For what?”
That, I wasn’t positive. I had no description to give, and no certainties to share. I propped my elbows upon the table, folded my forearms over each other. “I am less sure of this,” I admitted. “He operates at random, but he prefers dark places and rooms occupied by a single fen at a time, rather than many.”
I think my casual use of what little cant I knew tended to amuse Ishmael, rather than impress. He often let it slide without comment, as he did my use of fen for a dollymop’s profession.
“I once ran across what I think was him in Dutfield’s Yard, just after a killing,” I continued. A shiver plucked icy fingers down my spine at the memory. Zylphia and I had interrupted the beast before he could do more than slit a woman’s throat. In a fury, he’d gone on to murder another—and do such terrible things to her body as defied sanity. “He’s quick to kill, fast to run, and knows the streets a good sight better than most.”
Silence, pregnant with thought and anticipation, fell between us. The pub only became the noisier for it.
Finally, he stirred. “I like you, girl,” he told me, seriously enough that I made no quip for it. “So I’ll be clear. You’re asking for carriers to look for things what have no real knowing.”
He wasn’t saying that it was impossible. He was warning me that I’d owe for answers I may never get.
“I know,” I said, shrugging helplessly. “All I can say is that your folk have the way of the street, and you might know when a thing is off enough.”
“You sure you’re willing to pay?”
“Yes.” Of that, I had precious little uncertainty. Whatever earned me the Ripper’s trail—the sweet tooth’s capture—would be worth the owing, especially to Ishmael.